


(Nearly) Silent Night

by roseforthethorns



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Drinking, Drunken Kiss, Flirting, James is surprisingly supportive, M/M, Pre Relationship, Q is fed up, intolerant relatives, pre slash, tw for gay slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/pseuds/roseforthethorns
Summary: Christmas sucks when you're a double-oh agent with no family. Though, as James discovers, Christmas can sometimes suck /more/ when you do have family.





	(Nearly) Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> Thanks to help from dhampir72, Only_1_Truth, and Castillon02 as betas and sounding boards. I could not have done this without you.

It was a blessing that MI6 didn’t know where he was, James idly thought as he took another swig from the vodka bottle. He would have a few days of solace to survive the incessant gaiety and joy of the holidays before he returned to work. Normally, he’d have Alec by his side to drink through Christmas, but Alec was currently off the grid somewhere in Tbilisi. That left James to push through on his own, something he usually did with flying colours. 

Christmas was always much harder. 

His memories of Christmases at Skyfall were fuzzy now, but a few of them still glowed like embers he was loathe to stamp out. So few happy memories remained now; to lose one would be to have the world grow that much darker, to push him that much closer to not caring whether he came back from his missions or not. So with his best friend abroad and no real friends in London James was sitting on the floor in his living room and slowly drinking his way through a bottle of Svedka vodka that Alec had given him, waiting for any kind of reprieve from the feelings twisting in his chest. 

And then something smashed on the balcony outside.

The shattering glass sounded louder than it normally would have; James had opened the doors in a half-hearted attempt to freeze before he passed out drunk. James might not have gone to look had a second something not smashed on the railing of the balcony this time. Bringing the vodka bottle with him in case he needed a projectile of his own, James made his way outside to investigate. 

There were pieces of broken, colored glass on the balcony, and as James bent to examine them more closely, he heard another coming his way. Dodging the projectile, which then smashed, he distinctly heard a muffled swear from above him. He paused, listening. Because he knew that voice. 

“Fuck—oh fuck shit.”

James had to stifle a chuckle of his own as he listened; it was quite rare to hear swearing from the prim, professional mouth of MI6’s Quartermaster. Having only just moved into this flat a month prior, James didn’t know his neighbours, nor did he care to. Though… he wouldn’t mind getting to know Q a bit more. The Quartermaster was probably the only person besides Alec whom James trusted, and there had already been two missions since Q had taken over as James’ handler where he had refused to give up on James when most of MI6 had told him to drop it. So, of all the people who were regular fixtures in James’ life, Q was high on the list of people with whom James wouldn’t mind spending time. And that wasn’t the vodka talking.

“Fucking…  _ fuck _ .” 

Another something flew, this one missing James’ balcony entirely and landing on the pavement below, followed by two more sailing merrily by in quick succession.

Another one, and this time James could make out the shape before it shattered. Q was throwing Christmas ornaments. 

“Oh shit shit shit, need another--'yes, good!”

This particular ornament managed to, instead of shattering on James’ balcony, land in the single potted plant that sat outside. Moneypenny had insisted on giving it to him a few weeks prior, something to “liven up the place”. The ornament was a subtle shade of green, one that James recognized; he often stared into that same color when looking into Q’s eyes.

Staring at the ornament, James made up his mind. Taking up the ornament in one hand and the vodka bottle in the other, he headed out of his flat and upstairs. With Q’s flat right above his, he knew which door to knock on and wait in front of.

Only a moment later, with a muffled thump and more swearing, James heard Q approach the door. There was a long moment of silence before James heard a few soft beeps, followed by the distinct sound of a door unlocking. It swung open to reveal a rather drunk but surprisingly well-dressed Quartermaster. Q’s eyes were a little redder than usual behind his glasses, but James’ gaze was drawn to Q’s slicked down hair and his suit. The grey trousers paired well with a deep green dress shirt that brought out his eyes; both had been tailored to emphasize his slight frame. His jacket was missing, his tie gone, and the top two buttons of the shirt were undone. Q looked rather dashing, a definite upgrade from his usual mismatched jumpers and trousers.

James held up the ornament, trying for flirtatious as he and Q locked eyes. 

“I hope I’m not the reason for your ire. If I knew destroying your tech made you that mad, I would stop.” He infused humor into every word, smiling at Q as easily as if he were returning a broken earpiece.

There was silence for a moment, and then, in a tone that spoke to trying to be professional again and failing slightly from just a bit too much alcohol, “007. I’ll take that back, thank you.” Q held out his hand for the ornament. “Dare I ask how you got ahold of this?”

“You may design guns, but your throwing arm is shite,” James replied with an easier grin, not handing the ornament back.

“Says the man who can’t return from a mission without a new bullet wound or with any of my tech.”

Chuckling audibly now, James gestured to Q’s clothes. “Who gave you a sense of fashion?” he asked.

Q flipped him the bird. “If you must know… there was a family event and I was forced to attend.”

“Must have been quite a time if you’ve turned to destruction of property.”

“You have no idea.” 

There was an edge of something there. A sadness or depth of something else that a more sober James might have shied away from, but buzzed James was willing to explore. The alcohol was definitely preventing him from thinking through the more emotional implications of things.

And then Q noticed the bottle in James’ other hand.“Why don’t you come in. As long as I get to have some of that.” He nodded at the vodka. James could read the slight sway in Q’s posture, and the slight halting slur of his words was difficult to miss, but James wasn’t keen on being alone.

“I thought you would never ask,” James teased as he followed Q into the flat. 

It was better furnished than James’, but most places were better furnished than where James lived. There was certainly more furniture, including a large loveseat and a squishy armchair in front of an impressive TV and gaming setup. The walls hosted a few art prints as well as more than a few blueprints with patent certificates. Most flat surfaces, including the dining table, were buried under a layer of electronics, tools, and tech, and on the floor in one corner were two food bowls and a large water bowl. 

“Where are the cats?”

“In my room. Didn’t want them exploring the balcony.” Q took the vodka from James and downed several large gulps; this was a completely different man from the Quartermaster with whom James worked on a regular basis.

“What have you been drinking before this?”

“Ummmmm.” Q looked around for a moment until he found the half empty bottle of Jameson whiskey, picking it up and handing it to James. “This.”

“We have to get you a better sense of taste. Though what you just had is some of Russia’s finest. Courtesy of Alec.”

Q didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard a single word James had said. He only took another long swig from the bottle and kicked a large cardboard box next to the sliding doors to the balcony. There was a distinct clink of glass from inside as ornaments clinked together, and something definitely cracked. Q muttered a vehement “ _ fuck _ ” before kicking the box again, definitely breaking a few.

“Hey, hey, Q.” James caught Q’s wrist gently but firmly, and he resolutely did not bring attention to the tear rolling down Q’s face as the last vestige of Quartermaster control crumpled. “We can keep throwing them out the window. Or we can smash them into the box. Or a bin.”

“There’s a bin in the kitchen,” Q muttered as he sat down with his back to the wall and kept the vodka close.

It didn’t take too long to find the bin and retrieve it, and soon James had it set up on the balcony as something for them to aim at before taking a seat next to Q and offering him an ornament from the box. Q looked at it, studying the glitter swirls over the colored glass before throwing it as hard as he could… right over the edge of the balcony.

James chuckled, bemused, and took a longer look at Q now that he could. Q may have looked a bit drunk and rumpled, but he was still rather handsome, James’ treacherous brain noted. And right now Q looked brokenly beautiful as he chucked another ornament well over the railing.

It was another five minutes of drinking and throwing ornaments (James landed all of his attempts while only one of Q’s several clipped the bin) that Q began to speak. “It was the family Christmas dinner,” he said, his words slurring slightly but mostly sounding carefully chosen and formed otherwise, the hallmark of someone trying in vain to sound sober. “My parents, sisters, and various extended family.  _ Relatives _ ,” he spat, landing the next ornament he threw. “And my Aunt Ethel… recently she found religion. I say recent; it was three years ago. But I wasn’t out to my extended family three years ago.”

In thirty seconds, James had learned more about Q than he had in nearly a year of working with the man. Q’s fastidious nature and penchant for inventing and hacking came with the man like a second skin, but James had always imagined Q as a loner. Like himself. He was amazed at this new version of Q, a foul-mouthed, out and proud man. James had always suspected, and certainly he flirted with Q as much as anyone else ( _ no, more, and you know it _ , whispered his mind), but he had never been truly sure. On that front, Q had remained a complete enigma.

“So of course Aunt Ethel hosts the dinner this year with her useless husband Roger, and she spends every breath proselytizing and saying how—” here Q sat up straighter and pursed his lips in an imitation of his aunt, “—lucky she and Roger are for converting and that the Bible and Jesus will save them, and how nice it would be if he could save the rest of us so we could go to heaven together.” He slumped back against the wall again with murder in his eyes. “Sanctimonious  _ bitch _ . And I just couldn’t keep my fucking mouth shut.”

James watched, silent, as Q tried to form the next sentences. He could see where this was going, and was surprised to find just how much he wanted to make this Aunt Ethel suffer for hurting Q so badly.

“I told her some of us have already been saved without religion and are content where we are. That some of us don’t want to be told what to believe and how to think by a supercilious cult leader who demonizes homosexuality.” Q sighed and drank again. “She went off on how homosexuality is a sin and how horrible it is to imagine people of the same sex being together in a Biblical sense, that it was blasphemy and immoral and the reason for all the wrongs of the world. So I stared her right in the eye and… came out. To her. Told her I was one of those homosexuals she hated so much and I had every bit as much of a right to my beliefs as she to hers, and that telling me what to believe and how to think were not in her job description.” Q stared at the vodka bottle for a moment before giving a hollow laugh. “I may also have called her a Bible-thumping cunt.  _ That _ did not go over well.”

“My parents started to chastise me for my language, but Aunt Ethel…” What little color was left in Q’s face drained away. “Whoever said that words can’t hurt was a fucking liar. I’ve had slurs thrown my way before. It happens. People are arseholes. But once she started to yell the table went completely silent. My parents didn’t defend me, my sisters said nothing, even my various other relatives stared at their plates. Their  _ silence _ … while she called me a sodomite faggot who deserved to burn in hell for being filthy enough to enjoy sex with men.” Q’s gaze hardened. “To that, I replied, ‘Then I’ll have to avoid running into you there, because last I checked, you enjoyed having sex with men too.’ And then I left. I got the fuck out while I could and while she was stunned into silence.”

Q took another ornament from the box, this one a glass cross, and hurled it into the bin where it shattered. “Dinner was at hers, her turn to host and all that shite. And we always decorate the host’s tree as a family after dinner, and I was so angry... so I stole all her ornaments.” He gestured to the box. “And brought them back here because I needed a fucking drink. And then apparently I ended up chucking them at you.” 

As Q went for another sip of vodka, James caught the bottle, much as he had taken Q’s wrist earlier. His grip was gentle but firm, and he deliberately caught Q’s eye. “Stop,” he said gently. ”Take it from someone who knows— revenge drinking only ends up hurting you. And the world needs that genius brain of yours intact.  _ I _ need you intact.” Q blinked owlishly up at him as James realized what that sounded like. “Can you imagine me working with R? Or one of your underlings? I would send them home crying in seconds.” James eased the bottle from Q’s hand and set it aside. “Your hangover will thank me in the morning.”

Q stared at him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes before he leaned forward and kissed James, gently. It was… nice, James concluded as his brain tried to grasp the fact that Q was kissing him and how much he hadn’t realized that he wanted exactly that. Nice but drunken, and the last thing he wanted was for Q to have any lasting regrets in the morning other than a hangover. So James broke the kiss instead, refusing to take advantage. “Come on, bedtime,” he murmured as he slowly stood and pulled Q up with him. 

Letting Q support himself by leaning against him, James closed the balcony doors and helped Q through to the bedroom. There he found Q’s cats curled up on the pillow, watching him as he helped Q off with his shoes and tie before laying him down on the bed. It didn’t take him long to find the aspirin and feed two to Q with some tap water before tucking him under the duvet and slipping out… but not before picking up the green ornament he had brought up with him.

***

The next morning found James up at dawn for a run, then back at his flat for a proper shower, and he was just fixing to make breakfast when he heard a knock at his door. Throwing the hand towel over his shoulder, and slipping a knife into his apron pocket, he checked the peephole to find a rather sheepish-looking Q standing there.

“Morning,” James said as he opened the door. “Do you feel as hungover as you look?”

“Bite me, 007,” Q replied, before taking in the sight of James preparing to cook. “And here I thought you wore suits all the time.” He shifted his weight and glanced at the floor. “Er—about last night—I was drunk and—”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t want you to do anything you would regret.”

“My only regret is that my first kiss with you was a drunken one after I poured out my sob story.” Q winced slightly. “Clearly my verbal filters are still a bit drunk. That vodka is serious stuff.”

James smiled. “You should see Alec with it. Takes nearly a whole bottle for him to start feeling it. Never get into a drinking contest with him.”

“Anyway— I was wondering if you maybe wanted to do breakfast. Try things sober,” Q added. “We could eat out if you wanted. Or here.”

“And here I thought you would never accept my invitation to dinner,” James teased with a wink, stepping aside to let Q into the flat.

“ _ Your _ invitations to dinner make it sound filthy and completely unrelated to actual food.”

“Because sausage is definitely on the menu?”

Q choked back a shocked laugh as James smirked at him and pulled a carton from the fridge.

“How do you like your eggs?” James asked as he turned on the burner.

It was Q’s turn to smirk. “Over hard.” When James turned to him with a raised eyebrow, Q started to laugh. “Poached on toast, thanks.”

The only witness in the flat to their continued banter was a shiny green ornament sitting on James’ mantle. It had been claimed by a new owner, transformed into another warm ember for James’ Christmas fire. Perhaps there would be a tree for it one day with other ornaments to keep it company, ones that, if he were lucky, he and Q would choose together.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and comments welcome!


End file.
